Choice

September 12, 2012

you weren’t even twelve hours old
when I squeezzed into a small room
dimly lit by fluorescent light
computer monitors tracing eternal mazes
air heavy with pungent food and flatulence
I sat in a chair
as a young man
made a drawing of a heart
explaining again what could be done
me: staring, breathing
him: moving briskly through the script
occasionally checking
for signs of comprehension

when he finished, I signed on the line
what else could I do?
hand quivering, mind reeling, blood cold

when given a choice
between life
and death
we do what we must
I did what I must
consigning you to the same fate
I am sorry, my son
and I am not
Lord, have mercy